


what he doesn't know

by onlyeverthus



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:19:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2408252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyeverthus/pseuds/onlyeverthus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't know who she is or where she comes from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what he doesn't know

**Author's Note:**

> AU for Doctor Who after Doomsday and mildly AU for Supernatural during S4. (Written in 2010.)

He doesn't know who she is or where she comes from.

He does know that she's strong, watching as she beheads a vampire like it's no effort at all, using the machete he'd dropped just moments before. Two quick whacks, and she saves his ass like it's nothing.

He takes the hand she extends to him and climbs to his feet, watching her skeptically. She runs a hand over her face, smearing the droplets of blood that speckle her cheeks and forehead, and smiles brightly as she introduces herself as Rose. Her accent makes him think of Bela and he eyes her warily, though as far as first impressions go, she's about as far from Bela as she can get.

She hands the machete to him and walks with him back to the Impala. He somehow expects her to be chatty but she's quiet, almost thoughtful, glancing up at the sky every once in a while.

She passes every test he throws at her, and when she asks him for a ride, he finds he doesn't really have a reason to say no.

 

He knows how hard she is on herself sometimes, noticing how frustrated she gets when she stumbles over the exorcism ritual the first few times, forgetting and mispronouncing the words.

They get separated in a warehouse, and when he finds her again she's pinned underneath a demon, Ruby's knife in its chest all the way to the hilt. She shoves the body away and climbs to her feet, wincing as she rolls her shoulder. She bends and angrily yanks the knife from the body, wiping the blood on her pants and sticking it into the waist of her jeans.

She sees him watching, and she sighs, placing one hand on her hip and using the other to tuck her hair behind her ears. Tears of frustration shine in her eyes as she explains that she forgot the second half of the ritual and had to use the knife. He tells her it's all right, God knows it took him long enough to memorize the damn thing. She shakes her head at him, raking her fingers through her hair and telling him that it's definitely not all right.

For days after he hears her mumbling the ritual to herself at every available moment, in the mornings when she emerges from the shower, in the car on the way to jobs, sometimes even in her sleep, and he wonders how dull her dreams must be if she's mumbling Latin phrases aloud.

Her next exorcism is flawless, and he has trouble hiding how proud of her he is.

 

He knows how vulnerable she is when he finally finds her in a deserted cabin deep in the Oregon woods, bound and gagged by the shapeshifter they'd had a run in with two days before.

He removes the gag, and she gasps, hardly able to catch her breath as tears stream down her cheeks. Blood runs down at her arms, dripping to the floor as he cuts the bounds on her wrists. It coats his fingers as he pulls the wire from her skin, trying to be as gentle as he possibly can and wincing with every pained breath she takes.

This shifter is different from the ones he's faced before, somehow able to assume forms he knows it couldn't have seen before, and he asks her what it looked like, how it tricked her into trusting it for that one second it needed to take her. She won't tell him, shaking her head firmly as more tears stream down her cheeks and he lets it go for the moment, tossing the wire to the floor and carefully lifting her into his arms to take her out to the car.

He helps her clean up when they get back to the motel, scrubbing her skin as hard as he dares and washing her hair until the water runs clear.

The only effort she makes at clothing is buttoning up one of his shirts before she climbs into bed. He sits down beside her and bandages her wrists, securing the ends with such care that it makes her smile, if only for a moment.

She knows what he wants to do but asks him to stay with her, just until she falls asleep, and he can't say no.

A silver bullet takes care of the shifter a couple of hours later and he thinks to ask her who the tall man in the pinstriped suit is, but he never does.

 

He knows how it feels to kiss her when they return from a hunt, to taste the blood from her split lip as he pushes her against the wall, wanting her so badly it almost hurts. Her fingers dig into his sides as she pulls him to her, and her hands drift up his chest to push the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugs off his shirt, yanking his arms from the sleeves and balling it up to toss it away.

His hands grip her hips as he kisses her again, and he finds the edge of her shirt, tugging it off over her head and burying his fingers in her hair as he presses his lips to hers.

Their progress to the bed is marked by a trail of discarded clothing, and she grins when he pushes her on to the bed, reaching for him and pulling him down to her. He kisses her again as one hand traces the lines of her body, moving down the slope of her neck, over her chest, lingering on one breast before continuing down to brush the curve of her hip and stroke the smooth skin of her thigh. Her legs rise to grip his sides and he slides easily inside, pressing his lips to her neck as her fingers clutch at his back, holding tightly to him as they move together.

He feels her breath on his skin, light and warm as she kisses his neck, touching her lips to his Adam's apple, to the hollow at the base of his throat. Her fingers tighten their grip on his sides, pressing against the bruises on his ribs but the pain is insignificant, unimportant right now.

Her legs tighten around him when her orgasm is close, and he watches her face, watches the way her mouth falls open and the way her brow creases as she frowns and the way her lashes flutter when she closes her eyes. He kisses her neck as he jerks his hips upward and she gasps, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, and he loves how she sounds when she comes.

They lie together after, loosely tangled up in each other, not speaking. His fingers absently caress her arm, the strokes growing longer and longer until he brushes against the scar that circles her wrist like a bracelet.

They're both still for a moment, and then she turns towards him, kissing his arm lightly as she presses the length of her body to his and drapes one arm over his stomach, her fingers curling slightly as she settles against him.

He listens as her breathing slows and wonders if she knows how he blames himself for the scars that stain her skin.

 

He knows she's gotten under his skin when he finds himself telling her about everything: his parents, Sam, Azazel, Castiel and all the shit with the angels, Lilith and the sixty-six seals.

She listens quietly, her head on his shoulder and her arm loosely linked through his as they sit on the edge of the bed.

He hates the tears that are in his eyes when he finishes speaking, hates the way they sting and the way his throat feels too tight.

Her lips are cool on his skin as she kisses his neck, whispering that she's sorry.

He takes a breath and raises his eyebrows as he looks down at her, asking her what she could have to be sorry about.

She doesn't answer, just stares up at him with her chin resting on his arm, her brown eyes solemn. He sighs and looks away from her; a moment later her hand rises to his cheek, gently turning him back to face her.

She presses her lips lightly to his and says he doesn't deserve everything he's been through, whispering that she wishes she could make things better.

His fingers tangle in her hair as he kisses her again, and though he doesn't say it out loud, he allows himself to think for just a moment that maybe she already has.

 

He knows she's gone when he wakes up alone one morning, and he knows it's not the kind of gone where she's run out to get breakfast and will be right back.

He slowly gets out of bed, taking stock of the room. Her bag is gone, and if not for the crumpled sheets on the other side of the bed or the fact that his jacket, tossed across the back of one of the chairs, smells vaguely like her shampoo, it would seem like she'd never even been there.

She's left her phone beside his on the small table between the two beds, and he sees she's left a note beneath it. He checks her recent calls and notices no name on the most recent one, just a picture of a little blue box.

He turns his attention to the note and reads the words scribbled on the paper, his eyes lingering on the _R_ scrawled at the end.

He knows her name, knows the sound of her voice and the way that she laughs. He knows the curve of her lips and the flecks of gold in her eyes. He knows the lines of her body and the way she feels against him when she lies with him at night.

But sometimes, he thinks as he crumples the note in his fist, it's what he doesn't know that hurts the most.  



End file.
